


Pandemic? More like bi-demic

by SynonymouslyYours



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Like Staring at Each other, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, Castiel and Dean Winchester are in Quarantine, Dean was though, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, My original name for this fic was:, No yoga was harmed in the making of this fic, Some soft quarantine love for your quarantine days, This is inspired by countless canon gifsets, Yoga, quarantine fic, whyyyyyyy am i starting a new fic i have others i need to be working on pls somebody stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SynonymouslyYours/pseuds/SynonymouslyYours
Summary: The quarantine was starting to get to Dean.That’s what he told himself, as he stared out the window of his living room, casually spying on his new neighbor Castiel Novak—no, not spying,looking. After all, it was normal for a guy to be curious about his new neighbor, especially when said neighbor was currently bending over a bed of flowers, sculpted legs and toned arms glistening with sweat in the searing heat of the outdoors. Dean hadn’t been outside for days, but if anything could convince him to leave the house, it would be this gift of a visual.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 27
Kudos: 103
Collections: Takeout Tacos





	Pandemic? More like bi-demic

The quarantine was starting to get to Dean.

That’s what he told himself, as he stared out the window of his living room, casually spying on his new neighbor Castiel Novak—no, not spying, _looking_. After all, it was normal for a guy to be curious about his new neighbor, especially when said neighbor was currently bending over a bed of flowers, sculpted legs and toned arms glistening with sweat in the searing heat of the outdoors. Dean hadn’t been outside for days, but if anything could convince him to leave the house, it would be this gift of a visual.

 _God, I need something better to do with my time_ , Dean laughed inwardly. _Anything! Maybe even that New Age hippy yoga bullshit Sam’s always spouting_. Dean pictured himself sprawled on a yoga mat, surrounded by crystals and listening to Yanny. That wasn’t… too terrible. Then he pictured himself drinking one of Sam’s patented health shakes, and shuddered. _Nope, not heading down that road. Let’s just stick with creepin’ on the new guy for now_. Dean smiled softly as he gazed out his window, but jumped as Castiel suddenly straightened up and turned around to face him. Castiel waved all friendly-like, and Dean pretended not to be the horrible-creepy-stalker-person he was and gave Castiel a jolted wave before guiltily turning to his mug of coffee. He stared into the swirling liquid.

 _You’re not a creep_ , he told himself. _It’s the quarantine. It’s starting to get to you_.

~~

Castiel kicked off his shoes as soon as he entered the house. It was still new and unfamiliar, and he’d be damned if he was going to track dirt all over the shiny wooden floorboards. Besides, it was his house now, not Naomi’s; he could go barefoot whenever he wanted. The thought pleased him, and he pulled off his orange striped socks.

Castiel walked into the living room and sighed into his armchair, picking up his book from where he’d last left off. He stared at the pages for a few minutes, willing the words to enter his head as he rubbed his eyes—until finally, he gave up and glanced into the house next door.

Dean Winchester, his new neighbor, was sitting there in silence, nursing a cup of coffee as he stared at the Netflix screen. It looked as though he wasn’t faring any better than Castiel was, scrolling through the movies with a glazed look in his eyes. Castiel wasn’t peeping (well, maybe he was a little bit), but he was just so darn _bored_ cooped up in his house.

It also helped that Dean was ridiculously attractive. Even slumped in his chair watching Netflix, he managed to seem like a candid male glamour model, as Castiel watched Dean slide his hand through tufted hair, creating spikes of unrest that made Castiel itch to join him. His profile, too, was unreal: that perfectly slanted nose dotted with freckles and ending with that cute upward turn; his full, gleaming lips surrounded by stubble; and those eyes, those vibrant garden-green eyes Castiel wished he could coax out of his hydrangeas.

Castiel stared for a minute longer, then decided it was getting creepy and left for his kitchen to make another health shake.

~~

Dean couldn’t believe his misfortune. Castiel—or Cas, as he’d sometimes taken to calling him in his for-quarantine-only inner monologue, Castiel was just too damn long—had been seated in his living room directly across from Dean, eyebrows adorably furrowed at the book his nose was stuck in. (Dean had squinted at it for a while, trying to figure out what it was—Don Quixote? He hadn’t read that since 10th grade Spanish.) Dean had been, you know, innocently peering Cas’s way, until Castiel had looked up and caught him peeping, forcing Dean to resolutely glue his eyes to his TV. By the time he’d looked back, Cas was gone.

But once he’d berated himself for losing track of Castiel, Dean decided that his staring obsession had gone too far and headed out to his garage to take some drastic measures.

~~

Castiel couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d been sitting in his bedroom with his health shake, blissfully unaware and isolated and finally able to read Don Quixote without distractions—What’s the maddest thing a man can do? Stare at his neighbor for three days straight, probably—when he happened to catch sight of Dean dragging a _yoga mat_ to the center of his bedroom floor. Dean did yoga? Well, Castiel certainly hadn’t expected that. Dean, with his ear-thumping Zeppelin played at full volume, Robert Plant’s shriekingly-loud singing following Castiel to every corner of his house, as Dean was bent under the hood of his gleaming, black, monstrously-sized ‘67 Impala, toting a leather jacket with a six-pack of beers at the ready. And _Dean_ did yoga.

Well, apparently not very well. Castiel watched as Dean tried to align his feet, cringing slightly as he positioned them on the wooden flooring instead of the pale orange yoga mat readily available. He watched as Dean fidgeted impatiently during the opening meditation, wenching one eye open to glance at the clock every so often as he shifted his shoulders restlessly. He watched as Dean stumbled through his first few moves, feet slipping on the wooden floor and hands grasping for purchase on the orange mat.

He watched, and he tried really, _really_ hard not to laugh. He _knew_ he shouldn’t laugh. Yoga’s an incredibly grounding act that everyone's welcome to try, and it could take months of practice to become comfortable with the movements—but when Dean’s chin crashed into the floor again and his legs flailed wildly in the air, when Dean yelled “Son of a bitch!” so loudly that Castiel could hear him loud and clear all the way over in his bedroom, like the good man Robert Plant himself—Castiel couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that his window was open too, as he let loose a belly rumble of a laugh, the most entertained he’d been in days. He snorted through the laughter, until Dean’s head slowly lifted off of the floor and their eyes met, Dean staring at Castiel like an injured puppy.

For the first time, when Castiel was looking at Dean, Dean was finally looking back. And _god_ , wasn’t that so much better? Now Castiel could see the full spread of freckles and the growing blush across Dean’s face; he could see Dean’s lips fall into that perfectly petulant pout of his; and, best of all, he could see the way Dean’s envy-inducing green eyes looked reflecting back at him.

Dean was glaring at Castiel indignantly as he rolled up his yoga mat, and Castiel actually began to feel quite bad for having laughed at him. That is, until he saw Dean fighting to keep the smile off his face as he squinted at Castiel. Dean ambled over to his window, bow legs in full glorious display, and wrenched it open. “Like you could do any better?” he called out.

Castiel smirked. “I should hope so!” he yelled back. “That was a pretty impressive showing there, neighbor.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean twiddled his thumbs. “It’s not my mat, it’s my brother’s. I’ve got no clue how to use the thing.”

“It’s a mat, Dean. Pretty sure you just lay it on the ground and sit on it.”

“Yeah, well, this one’s defective,” Dean scowled, kicking at the offending object.

“You just… You put your hands and feet on the mat, like—” he motioned for Dean to give it a try—“No, don’t spread them so far apart, try just—a little closer together—okay, now, a little farther apart—now—” Castiel erupted into laughter once more as Dean folded in on himself, curling into a ball and rolling over.

“I give up!” Dean yelled, his hand flopping dramatically onto the floor behind him. “Not touching another one of these damn things again for the rest of my life, I don’t care how bored I get.”

“I think that’s probably for the best,” Castiel nodded sagely, hiding his chuckles.

“Oh, screw you, dickwad. You still haven’t proven to me you’re any good at this.”

Castiel tilted his head, considering the point, and nodded again. “That’s fair.” Then he offered Dean his most impish smile before leaving his room, Don Quixote abandoned on his bedside table.

~~

Dean waited patiently for Castiel to return. He stayed there, splayed on the floor, not even wanting to bother standing after the horrific display that had been his first-ever yoga session. Stupid Sammy and his stupid self-improvement suggestions… Next time he offered one of his damn health shakes, Dean would struggle not to dump it on the great galoot’s head.

Dean waited patiently, that is, for about as long as he could take it (a record breaking five whole minutes), before determining that perhaps Castiel just wasn’t planning on coming back tonight and perhaps he had just been an idiot sitting in his room for the past five minutes waiting for no one. Not wanting to make an even bigger fool of himself than he already had, Dean let out his most exaggerated sigh and rolled up his yoga mat.

Dramatics aside, Dean was actually quite disappointed that Castiel hadn’t returned. It had been exciting, joking with him for a few minutes; he thought they’d really been getting along. Despite the amount of time Dean spent staring at Castiel, this was the first time they’d spoken since Dean had brought Cas his obligatory welcome-to-the-neighborhood pie. (And even then, Dean had stuttered at the sight of Castiel.) But though he’d already known Castiel was attractive, over the past few days of staring, he’d been catching small glimpses of Cas’s personality that lit the slightest spark in Dean’s heart.

For one thing, there was the gardening. Not only because he _gardened_ , and, well, that was just goddamn adorable, but because of the _way_ he did it.

It had taken until the second day for Dean to notice. He watched Castiel bend over the ground, knees be damned, carefully pouring water over the row of seeds he’d methodically planted. But then, when Cas was finished with his watering, he leaned closer to the ground and—Dean felt his heart stop.

Cas was _whispering_ to his flowers.

Now that just wasn’t fair. These plants got to talk to Cas more than Dean did! _In fact_ , Dean thought sardonically, _I think that bed of dirt is being raised with more love than I ever was_.

But as Dean sighed through the window and watched Castiel whisper sweet nothings to the tiny seeds, showering them with love and affection and water, Dean only smiled, and his chest felt all warm and fuzzy.

Really, it was the little things like that that made Dean spend his days watching Castiel. The care Cas would show to his garden and to its insects, bees buzzing playfully as he whistled a tune Dean couldn’t identify at this distance; the identical laser-focus he targeted at each book he read, from old Batman comics to James Joyce, seeming to soak up every word as if it were the last of its kind on Earth; the way he carefully smoothed every page he turned to be certain his book wouldn’t grow damaged, and the satisfied smile he wore when he deemed it to be in fit condition. Dean had been staring for days, and he still couldn’t get enough of it.

Castiel seemed warm, kind, and charming, and Dean? Well, Dean was charmed. So, he couldn’t help the way his shoulders sagged when he realized Castiel wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. After waiting a final few minutes, Dean officially gave up. He turned his lights out and sank into his memory foam mattress with the blankets pulled taut, unfortunately oblivious to the dark-haired man jogging to the window in the house-next-door.

~~

_Damn it_. Castiel stared out his window, looking for any sign of life in the darkened bedroom across the yard. But it was too late—Dean was already gone.

Shit. He hadn’t meant to take so long to find his mat—an old, blue, ratty (one might even say “well-loved”) thing that he hadn’t used since his move. But with all his quarantine activities (re: stalking his hot neighbor Dean Winchester), Castiel just hadn’t found the time to organize all his stuff, and apparently, a few beloved items had been thrown to the wayside.

So maybe Castiel hadn’t been as active as he could have been during quarantine. Sure, he’d been gardening, but for the most part, he was lazing around his house reading books and watching Dean. But, come on, with a guy like that next door—could you blame him?

It wasn’t just that Dean was attractive. Of _course_ that was a factor, but it was more than that. It was the smile Dean got on his face every time his phone rang, treating anyone who called as if he’d been waiting to hear from them all day. It was the way he sang off-key and wiggled his hips to his music as he worked on his clearly beloved car, washing every inch of its surface to sparkling perfection. It was the way his too-green eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his Netflix options before they lit up with joy at the sight of yet another Clint Eastwood movie. Yes, Dean Winchester was beautiful; and he was shining from the inside-out.

Castiel refused to apologize for shamelessly watching this treasure-find of a neighbor, especially not now, when there was nothing better for him to be doing. He was disappointed that their conversation had been cut short, though; Dean was even more enticing now that he’d actually gotten the chance to speak with him. It looked as if Castiel’s plan would be pushed off till tomorrow.

 _Well_ , Castiel smirked to himself. _Who doesn’t like some morning yoga?_

He stayed there staring at the night sky, at the stars above Dean’s window, for a long few minutes before he finally turned to bed.

~~

Dean woke up the next morning with a sore back and aching muscles. “Memory foam, you’ve betrayed me,” he mumbled into his mattress. Flipping over onto his side, he scowled into the morning air, “I thought yoga’s supposed to be good for you.”

“It is,” a gravelly voice called out. Dean’s head shot up in surprise and he slowly turned to find the source of the sound. “And I don’t know what the fuck you were trying to do, but it definitely wasn’t yoga by the time you were done with it.”

Dean got up to the window now, which he’d apparently left open all night—well, that explained the draft—and his jaw dropped.

Cas was doing yoga.

 _Cas_ was doing yoga.

Cas was doing _yoga_.

And damn, Dean really _hadn’t_ been doing yoga. Because this… this was nothing like what he’d done.

He watched as Castiel rolled his shoulders back, spreading his hands on a light blue yoga mat— _fucking blue_ , Dean thought, _fucking blue yoga mat bringing out his goddamn blue motherfucking eyes_ —and pushing his hips upward in the most casually attained downward dog Dean had ever seen. And then Castiel turned to face Dean, smirking.

 _Those fucking eyes_.

 _Any time now would be a good time to start breathing_ , Dean thought, watching Castiel slide his leg forward and throw his head and arms back to switch into a new position. _God, wouldn’t that be something to write on the tombstone, death by hot new neighbor’s morning yoga? Sammy would be so proud_.

“Alright, Mr. Show-off. What, you practice all last night or something?”

Castiel sat down on his mat, melting into some kind of criss-cross-applesauce, and smiled at Dean. Dean was smiling back just as softly, until Cas said, “No, Dean, some of us just aren’t utterly incapable of keeping our balance.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Dean laughed. “You expect me to believe this was the first time you tried that? With your fucking hand in the air—there’s no way.”

“Well, no,” Castiel admitted. “I’ve been doing yoga for about… thirteen years now, I think?”

“Oh, you cheating hippie.” Dean glared at Castiel through his grin. “I thought flower children were supposed to be nice, not laugh at first-timers trying to learn ‘the way of the douche,’ or whatever.”

“Yes, well, flower-children also killed Sharon Tate, so I think you might be a little off on that one. You should try brushing up on your ‘way of the douche’ knowledge; maybe you won’t fall on your ass so much next time,” Cas smirked, standing up and stretching ostentatiously. Unable to come up with his own clever retort, Dean only mouthed the words back mockingly as he watched Cas roll up his mat with a self-satisfied smile. But despite Dean’s silence, instead of leaving his room now, Cas paused on his way out with a new, gummy smile, and asked, “Hey, where was that pie from, by the way?”

Dean, knowing exactly what Castiel was talking about, but pretending to be all casual like the little shit he is, cocked his head in faux surprise. “Where was that—oh, you mean the one I baked you?” He watched triumphantly as Castiel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“ _You_ baked that?”

Dean shrugged, trying to hide the smug smile on his face. So he _had_ liked it. Dean shuffled even closer to the window, toeing the wood playfully as he ducked his head to conceal his smile. “Yeah, I mean, it’s no big deal, I’ve been baking since I was a little—”

“No, I mean—there’s an international pandemic going around, and you gave me a home-baked good?” Dean froze, hand paused in his spiky morning hair. “I mean, it was good,” Cas rushed to add. “Like, really good. I wouldn’t have guessed you could cook. But—” and he started to laugh, the rest of the sentence tossed out the proverbial window.

Dean tried his hardest to stand there pouting sullenly, but he couldn’t help the smile crawling onto his face. “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t my best idea! But it _was_ good, wasn’t it?”

Castiel closed his eyes, smiling in a remembrance so mediative that it almost looked to Dean as if he was doing another one of his standing yoga poses. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll be needing you to do that again sometime.”

Dean stayed quiet for a moment, considering his options until Castiel opened his eyes once more. Then, with a heavy-handed smirk, he struck. “I could show you.”

But Cas only laughed, throwing his arms up and motioning to the empty space around him. “Forgetting something, Dean?”

“No, man, I could, like, quarantine-show you. Our kitchens stare right into each other, right? So…” Dean gestured wildly and—well, he was in it now—waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, let’s see if you’re half as good at baking as you are at yoga.”

“Oh,” Castiel grinned. “You’re _on_.”

Yes, quarantine was suiting Dean and Castiel just fine.


End file.
